


Unexpected Arrival

by MacBeth13



Series: After Magnussen [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacBeth13/pseuds/MacBeth13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was arrested and no one is giving any answers to the questions Greg Lestrade has and he's to the point of demanding them, but will he like the answers once he's found them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: not mine, sadly

                        “That’s it! I’m going over there,” Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade made the same threat he had made several times now in various different ways. He had dialled Sherlock and John multiple times to no avail over the past few days. This time his partner Sally Donovan knew he meant business. For one, Greg had stood up and grabbed his coat, for two, he had that determined look on his face she had seen so many times before.

                        “He won’t be there,” she told him. “He’s still in custody, Greg.”

                        “Then I’ll go over to John’s, they said he was released,” he quick-walked down to where his vehicle was parked and Sally had to hurry to keep up.

                        “And say what, exactly?”

                        “Demand some answers. I think I’ve bloody well earned that much.”

                        Sally sighed and climbed into the passenger seat before Greg revved the engine and pulled away. When they arrived at the Watson residence there was a sleek black car parked out front. Both detectives eyed the car before walking up to the Watson’s door. It took a few moments for someone to answer so Donovan was about to turn around when an official looking woman opened the door.

                        “Can I help you?”

                        “I’m looking for John Watson,” Greg told the woman in a voice meant to intimidate. It didn’t work, the woman was completely unfazed.

                        “He’s busy, come back later,” she told them then tried to close the door. Greg shoved his foot in the door before it could fully close then he strong-armed the door open wide, pushing his way in.

                        “No, no I don’t think so,” he said with determination as he passed by her and strutted on with purpose.

                        “Hey, you can’t just-”

                        “Watch me!” he growled to her then called out, “John!”

                        “In here,” John’s voice answered.

                        Donovan followed Lestrade into the Watsons’ sitting room where the couple was seated. There was also a taller gentleman standing across from them.

                        “Sorry, he barged his way in,” the woman apologized to the man.

                        “It’s fine, Althea,” the man said in a way that didn’t convince anyone it was. “Lestrade, what can we do for you?”

                        “Some damn answers would be nice,” Greg fumed and Sally put a placating hand on his arm.

                        “Welcome to the club,” John mumbled. He was sitting with his arms crossed, not looking happy at all.

                        “John,” Mary put her hand gently on her husband’s shoulder.

                        “Get to the point, Mycroft,” John ordered.

                        “Fine,” Mycroft said stiffly, not liking taking orders, “all I can tell you is that the council had made a decision. I can’t tell you much more than that Sherlock will be going away.”

                        “Where?” Lestrade asked.

                        “I really _can’t_ say,” Mycroft reiterated.

                        Sally could see it in Mycroft’s face. She’d seen that look before, the look of a burning man, a suffering man afraid to show what he was feeling, but she could see it in his eyes. Eyes that held a familiar shade of piercing blue, the same blue that sometimes could be seen in Sherlock’s strange chameleon eyes. Mycroft Homes may act like he didn’t have attachments and that he was above sentiment but his little brother was breaking his heart. Sally Donovan felt rather sorry for the man.

                        “When?” John asked.

                        “Excuse me?” Mycroft was jostled from his thoughts and had truly not heard the question.

                        “When is he leaving? Surely you could tell us at least that much.”

                        “Tomorrow,” Mycroft sighed.

                        “Tomorrow?! So your council is serving as judge, jury and executioner and sending him off to God knows where! For how long? We don’t even get to say goodbye, do we?”

                        “Greg,” Donovan tried calming him.

                        “We don’t, do we? He’s my friend too, y’know? He’ll be, what, exiled? And how do I even know he did it? Look me in the eye and tell me he did it,” Greg looked at Mycroft who looked sadder than before, he looked at John who looked about to cry then Greg looked down and let out a heavy sigh. “Why?” he asked the floor and perhaps the heavens too.

                        “There were circumstances that could not be foreseen, a situation that would never, could never, have a pleasant outcome,” Mycroft vaguely explained.

                        “So he didn’t have a choice?” Sally asked.

                        “He had choices, none of them palatable,” John said.

                        Sally looked at Greg and could see the defeat overcome him in the drooped set to his shoulders, the drawn look to his face. This was a reality that her partner didn’t want to have to deal with. She didn’t understand why Greg considered Sherlock a friend, the man never remembered his name and he was always so strange, but Greg did and he was hurting over this. It seemed like Sherlock had only just come back from the dead and then nearly really did die from a gunshot wound and now this. Sally Donovan’s instincts were telling her that wherever Sherlock was being sent he wasn’t coming back.

                        “Come on, Greg,” she said softly, lightly tapping the outside of his forearm with the back of her hand. He just nodded and followed her back out. His longer strides took him ahead of her and so she hoped he hadn’t heard Mycroft start to tell the Watsons that Sherlock had requested they meet him at the airport.

                        “What, no ‘I told you so’s?” Greg asked as he settled into the passenger side, opting to let her drive.

                        “No, not today,” she looked straight ahead.

                        “Well, thanks for that.”

                        “Yeah.”

                        “I won’t be in tomorrow.”

                        “Going to the pub?”

                        “Yup.”

                        “Okay,” she nodded then checked her mirrors and pulled away from the curb. Sally Donovan wasn’t happy that she had been proven right about Sherlock. If only for the people left behind to deal with the aftermath she really wished she was wrong.

                        Greg Lestrade did exactly what he said he would, he spent the next day down at the pub. There was a game on so he didn’t look like a drunkard getting a very early start, even though that was what he was at the moment. Greg watched the game and drank beer and tried to forget that at that exact moment his friend was leaving the country and not knowing if he’d ever see him again.

                        Lestrade’s mind had wandered and his gaze was drawn back to the television screen and out of his beer when a few of the patrons complained that there was something wrong with the telly. There was static, a glimpse of the back of someone’s head, more static, then a face Greg Lestrade thought he’d never have to look at again that sent shiver of ice up and down his spine and an oscillating voice that gave him the creeps.

                        “What the Hell is that?!”

                        “Oi, fix the telly!”

                        “It’s on every station, I can’t fix it!” the barman shouted back at the noisy lot.

                        “Fuck me!” Lestrade swore an epithet then pulled out his mobile and dialled Donovan. “Is this everywhere? Yeah, yeah, I’ll be in as soon as I can.” He hung up then flagged down the barman. “Do you got any coffee?”

                        “Er, yeah, in th’ back, no’ the tastiest brew.”

                        “Doesn’t matter, I’ll take it black.”

                        “Needin’ ta sober up fast, Detective Inspector?” the barkeep caught on.

                        “Yeah.”

                        “This loon,” he gestured to the telly, “a problem of yours?”

                        “Unfortunately, yes, was supposed to be dead.”

                        “He’s that nutter what was in the news a few years ago, ain’t ‘e?”

                        “Yeah,” Lestrade sighed.

                        The man left then came back with the offensive coffee. It tasted like petrol but he drank it anyway.

                        “Anythin’ else ya need?”

                        “Need? Yeah, I need Sherlock Holmes, we all do.” Greg slammed back the coffee and paid his tab, then walked out of the pub and hailed a cab leaving a confused barman in his wake. Greg wondered the whole way to the precinct, what the hell were they going to do now without Sherlock Holmes?


End file.
